Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “There, that makes it one hundred billion and one.”

  After letting the Grand Patriarch slump to the sheets of his bed, Thurr proudly draped the chain of office around his own neck, then made his way back out into the night. When alarms finally sounded throughout the city, hours later, he was still flushed with excitement and full of plans about the changes he would make when he took control.

  For one thing, security would have to be increased.

  Before there can be betrayal, there must be trust.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES,

  private message to Abulurd Harkonnen

  Vorian Atreides went alone in search of his tyrant father. He knew he could not trust the lethargic League, even when the crisis was so plain. He would deal with the cymek threat. Personally.

  With a heavy heart, he left Abulurd behind with instructions to continue working on defenses against the machine mites, while also compiling historical records that might be useful in clearing the name of Xavier Harkonnen. So far, the League task force had done little to look into the matter.

  As he flew off in the Dream Voyager, he wished he could have gone back to Caladan one more time, just to see his sons. That was the destination he had given the League, but that could not be. If Estes and Kagin sensed something was wrong, they would feel obligated to try to talk him out of his plan. Or maybe they would just formally accept his visit, talk about inconsequential things, and wait for him to go so they could get back to the routine of their lives.

  At least they didn’t hate him, as he hated his father.

  Vor had never seen any place as bleak as Hessra. During his solitary journey at the familiar controls of the DreamVoyager, he had called up historical holovids from Serena Butler’s visit to the Ivory Tower Cogitors, but even those images had not prepared him for such complete desolation.

  Vor chose his landing coordinates carefully, within sight of the glacier-buried fortress that formerly held Vidad and his companions, and set the old update ship down a short distance away in the vast valley of ice at the base of the craggy peaks. As he stepped out of the black-and-silver ship, bundled against the cold and wind, Vor took his first breaths of the thin, unfriendly air.

  I am deep in the heart of cymek territory. They could simply blast me away. Any moment now, I will know. But he was sure his father would want to gloat, then interrogate or torture him. None of the cymeks would do anything without orders from the Titan general.

  Feeling the frozen surface tremble beneath his feet, he looked up at the ice-encrusted spires of the Cogitors’ citadel. Immense doors rattled open beneath the buried towers. The machines began to emerge, a horrific menagerie of flyers and heavily armored crablike walkers. Each one contained the brain canister of a neo-cymek, one of Agamemnon’s minions. In the freezing air, he heard the crash of heavy mechanical footsteps, the whine of powerful engines, the ominous buzz of warming weapons.

  He faced the oncoming force of machines with human minds, alone and unafraid. He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet more firmly, knowing he looked cocky and unimpressed.

  Cymeks in flying forms roared past him, their hot engines making thunder in the dim sky. Lumbering combat walkers advanced, artillery turrets extended. From his time as a trustee human on Earth, Vor was familiar with many of the shapes and designs. There was a time when I wanted more than anything else to be one of them.

  An angular flyer hovered above him, and Vor saw the glow of a holo-camera focused on his face, no doubt transmitting to the control centers inside the citadel. Vor tilted his head and shouted upward, “I am Vorian Atreides! Tell Agamemnon that his son has returned to him. He and I have much to discuss.”

  The hovering neo-cymek extruded mechanical talons and gripped Vor around the torso. He did not bother to struggle, knowing the neo was trying to intimidate him. If any of these underlings hurt him, they would have to answer to the wrath of Agamemnon. He had to count on that.

  Clutching Vor in its metal grip so he could barely breathe in the already thin air, the neo flew back to the Cogitor citadel. On the ice field behind him, other neos surrounded the Dream Voyager and took possession of the update ship. Some of the smaller walker-forms manipulated the controls, trying to get inside. Vor hoped they would not damage the ship. But if they did, he had always been prepared to be left without a means of escape. Saving his own life was only a secondary consideration.

  The neo-cymek took him through a yawning reception doorway in an excavated grotto beneath the fortress. The cymeks had cleared away centuries of piled glacial ice, opening chambers and facilities that the Ivory Tower Cogitors had long abandoned. Inside the echoing bay, the flying neo-cymek set Vor down on his feet. Frost covered the floor and walls of what seemed to be a storage or preparation area. Around him he saw the clutter of extra cymek walkers, flyers, and other ominous mechanical forms, currently without brain canisters attached.

  Vor brushed himself off, took a deep breath, and regained his composure. Ignoring the flyer that had unceremoniously dumped him here, he faced an open tunnel doorway through which he heard the pounding footsteps of what had to be an approaching Titan. With a calm and determined expression fixed on his face, he prepared to meet his father again. He had spent the past century imagining this moment.

  Agamemnon strode into the light, his powerful metal legs and obvious weaponry as overstated as ever. Smiling, Vor looked up at the head turret, with its galaxy of glittering optic threads.

  “So, Father— are you happy to see me?”

  The cymek towered over Vor, at least twice the man’s height and many times his bulk. Two human-sized mechanical arms appeared in the front of the carapace and pulled open a panel just in front of the suspended, encased brain.

  “Happy enough to rip you into gobbets of meat and bone.” Agamemnon’s choleric voice was like the sound of stones breaking. “Why have you come here?”

  Vor continued to smile, maintained a calm voice. “Is this the unconditional love a father shows his son? Since you’ve already killed all your other offspring, I thought you would at least hear what I have to say. Where is my welcome?”

  “Welcoming you is different from trusting you. At the moment I choose to do neither.”

  Vor made himself chuckle. “Spoken like the true General Agamemnon!” Holding up his hands, he touched his smooth, youthful face. “Look at me, Father. I have not aged, thanks to the life-extension treatment you gave me. Don’t you believe I’m grateful for that?”

  The enormous walker strutted slowly across the frozen floor, striking sparks from the rocks. “I did that back when you remained faithful to me.”

  Vor countered quickly, “Ah, yes, back when you were loyal to Omnius. Things change.”

  “You could have had millennia— as a cymek. But you threw that opportunity away.”

  “I assessed my options and chose the best one. Certainly you can understand that, Father— it’s exactly what you taught me. After all, I broke free of Omnius decades before you managed to do it.”

  Agamemnon was not pleased, nor was he made of patience. “Why are you here?”

  “I have brought you a gift.” The neos drew back, as if Vor might produce a hidden bomb. “Me.”

  Agamemnon’s hearty laughter echoed through the cavern. “And why would I want that?”

  “I have lived among failures long enough, and I’m ready to renew our relationship.”

  In a caustic tone, the cymek retorted, “You expect me to believe that? You betrayed the thinking machines in order to help the humans in their Jihad.”

  “True enough, Father, but you and your cymeks changed sides yourselves, more than once.” Vor tossed his dark hair. “I expect you to listen to my reasons and see if you come to the same conclusion.”

  Struggling to keep himself from shivering in the frigid chamber, he laid out his exaggerated litany of the League’s failings, how the people refused to make the necessary commitment to destroy Omnius at Corrin once and for a
ll, how they treated him as an old relic who looked like a young and inexperienced man.

  “My wife has died, and my own sons are strangers to me. Time and again, the League has made it clear they have no further use for an old warhorse. They are busily squandering all of the victories— all of my victories— achieved against the Synchronized Worlds. They cannot think longer than a few decades, caring nothing for the future if it extends beyond their short life spans. Unlike the Titans, Father, who have not wavered in their ambition in more than a thousand years. But look at you: a handful of cymeks hiding on a frozen planetoid long after Omnius has been defeated. Frankly, you and your followers could use my help.”

  Agamemnon sounded offended. “We have many worlds!”

  “Dead, radioactive ones that no one else wants. And a few new colonies that were already weakened by the Scourge.”

  “We are building our power base.”

  “Oh? And is that why you seized Quentin Butler and converted him into a cymek? Obviously you need new blood, talented commanders to help you lead. Wouldn’t you rather have me than an uncooperative hostage?”

  “Why can’t I have both?” The Titan walker reared up, flashing another set of projectile weapons. “Before long, we may even succeed in breaking Quentin.”

  “There’s a chance I can help you with that.” Vor stepped closer to the monster, within instant striking range of the powerful metal claws. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious of me, Father— after all, you trained me. But I am your blood, your son— your last son. You can have no other offspring. I am your final chance to create a worthy successor. Do you want to take this opportunity, or throw it away?”

  As the remark struck home, Vor watched the play of electrical charges on the brain inside the canister. Agamemnon reached forward to scoop Vor off the floor and up into the air. “Against my better judgment, I will give you the benefit of the doubt— for now. We are a family again, my son.”

  * * *

  FOUR DAYS LATER, they stood outside on the cold glacier under the star-swept skies of isolated Hessra. The air was much too thin and cold for Vor’s human body, so he had donned one of the League environmental suits stored aboard the Dream Voyager. The protective garment sparkled with icy reflections.

  A meteor streaked overhead, shining brightly for a moment and then vanishing forever. “Once you become a cymek with us, helping me, Juno, and Dante establish the next Time of Titans, your perspective will span millennia instead of mere decades.”

  Vor hurried to keep up with the great strides of the mechanical walker. Somewhat wistfully, he was reminded of his own youth and innocence, when he had happily followed his father through the streets of Old Earth. Back then, blind and deluded, he had never noticed anything bad about the tyranny of Omnius. Vor had been proud to serve the Synchronized Worlds as a human trustee, never imagining that his great father could possibly be corrupt.

  “Remember when I used to wait for you every time you returned from fighting against the hrethgir? I would tend you, listen to your stories, clean all of your parts and systems.”

  “And then you betrayed me,” Agamemnon growled.

  Vor did not rise to the bait. “Would you rather I had continued to fight for Omnius? Either way, I would have been on the wrong side.”

  “At least you’ve finally come to your senses. I just wish it hadn’t taken you more than a century to seek me out again. Most prodigal sons would have died of old age long ago.”

  Vor chuckled. “In that case, I have a distinct advantage.”

  “I had thirteen other sons,” Agamemnon said, “and you are the most talented of them all.”

  Growing more serious, Vor said, “When I was with Seurat before I… changed my loyalties, I discovered in the databases that you killed all those other sons.”

  “They were all flawed,” Agamemnon said.

  “I’m flawed, too. I admit it freely. If you wanted perfection, you should have continued to serve the thinking machines.”

  “I was searching for a person worthy of being my successor. Remember, I overthrew the Old Empire, fighting beside the great Tlaloc. I could not pass such a mantle to anyone who showed weakness or uncertainty.”

  “And none of your other sons had any abilities?”

  “Some were slow, others unambitious, a few overtly disloyal. I could not have that, so I killed them and started again. A weeding process. Centuries ago, before I transformed myself into a cymek, I stored a stockpile of my sperm, so there was no reason for me to accept a mediocre heir. But you are the last, Vorian. As you well know, all of my sperm was obliterated in the atomic destruction of Earth. You are my only surviving son… and for many decades I thought you were lost to me.”

  “The universe is not static, Father.”

  “And you’ve come back not a moment too soon. Originally, I had high hopes for Quentin Butler, but he resists the inevitable, thwarting all of our efforts. He hates us, even though his future lies with us, since he can never go back to the League, can never again be human. We could continue working our manipulation, and we may make him an ally after all. But if I have you, I no longer need Quentin’s skills. Once I convert you into a cymek, you will be my heir apparent, the next general of the Titans.”

  “History is unpredictable, Father. You may be overestimating what I’ll be able to accomplish.”

  “No, Vorian. I do not overestimate you.” The huge walker-form lifted an articulated arm to nudge the small human. “As a cymek, you will be invincible, like me. I can then take you safely to many of our recaptured worlds, make you the king of whichever planets you desire.”

  Vor was not impressed. “I could have had the governorship of any League World I wanted, Father.”

  “Once you become a cymek, your new existence is in itself a fabulous reward. As I recall, when you were a trustee you begged me for that opportunity. You looked forward to the day when I would put you through the surgery to make you strong like the other Titans.”

  “I still look forward to that day,” Vor said, swallowing the bile in his throat and making certain his voice sounded enthusiastic. Side by side the pair finally returned to the half-buried towers of the Cogitors again. “I hope it is soon.”

  “Before you are converted, your biological form still retains one advantage, a resource that I lost long ago.”

  “What is that, Father?” He felt suddenly cold inside.

  The giant walker-form continued across the ice. “You are my son, my offspring, the only remaining vestige of the ancient House of Atreus. And even though all of my sperm was destroyed on Earth, you still have the potential to continue our line. You must be harvested. Juno has the apparatus already set up inside the Cogitors’ chambers. This is a duty you must perform before I can allow you to become a cymek.”

  Vorian’s stomach lurched, but he knew that he would not be able to talk his father out of this. Therefore, he would have to provide the genetic samples the Titan leader demanded. He thought of Estes and Kagin and Raquella. They would stand as his true legacy, no matter what happened here. Vor’s throat felt dry with anxiety, but he did not hesitate too long. “I’ll do whatever is required of me, Father. I came to you in order to prove my loyalty. Some of my sperm for future generations of Atreides… that is a minor thing.”

  As they stood before the Cogitors’ towers, the open vault doors leading into dark passages beneath looked like open, hungry jaws. He stepped inside, ready for whatever Juno would force him to do.

  In truth, is it better to remember or to forget? We must balance this decision between our history and our humanity.

  — BASHAR ABULURD HARKONNEN,

  private logs

  The murder of the Grand Patriarch caused an uproar in the League of Nobles. Accusations and suspicions flew in all directions, while Viceroy Butler attempted to maintain calm and stability. All powerful people had their share of political rivals, but bland Xander Boro-Ginjo had never been the sort of man to inspire the passionate sort of hat
red that his assassination implied. It was difficult to believe anyone’s reaction to him could have gone beyond mere annoyance or impatience.

  Although Faykan expressed his anger and shock at the assassination, he was slow to announce a replacement for the Grand Patriarch. For the time being, Abulurd’s brother appointed a panel of deputies to take over Xander’s duties, which, once the responsibilities had been delegated and disseminated, turned out to be largely ceremonial and insignificant.

  A handful of those who hoped to become the next Grand Patriarch urged a quick resolution. The Viceroy made a firm statement that since all those close to Xander must, by default, be considered suspects, he would appoint no successor until the investigation had been completed. Abulurd suspected his brother was stalling for time, though he could not understand why.

  The new bashar devoted most of his energies to the ongoing research work in the laboratory facilities near the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion, which was now cordoned off for the investigation. One of his lab workers hurried from an outside office with an alarmed expression on her face. “You should see what’s happening in the streets, Bashar. The Cult of Serena is rallying. A huge crowd.”

  “Again?” Because the laboratory was isolated for protection, he’d been unaware of any disturbance outside. Abulurd had had little contact with his niece, Rayna, since bringing the waifish plague survivor to Salusa, but he knew her penchant for destroying sophisticated equipment. “Stay here and barricade the doors. Protect your work at all costs, because if the Cult gets inside you know what they’ll do.”

  The lab technicians and engineers, who had no training in self-defense or combat, looked alarmed at his suggestion. “If they get… inside?”

  “Just do your best,” he said when he saw their stricken expressions. He went outside to see what had set the crowd off today.

  In the streets Rayna Butler— now a thin woman in her thirties, still pale and hairless— marched at the head of her crusaders. They surged along the boulevards carrying banners and placards, chanting, brandishing weapons. Her zealous, violent following had developed on ragged worlds with few remaining laws. Here in Zimia, however, Rayna kept her adherents under greater control according to her agreement with Faykan. Abulurd feared, though, that it was merely a temporary measure. The Cult of Serena was a pot of hopeless humanity rising to a roiling, angry boil.